


Parentheses

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, PWP, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 16:21:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2014!cas/2009!cas - selfcest. endverse flavours. pwp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parentheses

Of a long list of faults, Castiel supposes that in this moment, his curiosity is the most prevalent.

Dean told him about this place; the camp, the way they were _changed._ He talked mostly about himself, avoiding Castiel’s eyes – how he’d tortured again, how _cold_ he’d been. He refused to divulge many of the details; just told him about the camp, how he and Castiel were still fighting alongside each other, even five years later. Told him about _jeeps_ ; about the bare wooden floors of the cabins, the way it had smelt – oil and patchouli, incense and smoke.

Castiel strides through the camp in 2014, mindless of what an eyesore he looks; his clean, pressed suit, the careful sweep of his coat, is out of place in this filthy, messy place. He wonders where he could _be,_ if his appearance is making the camp residents flinch so; maybe Dean lied, to spare his feelings. Maybe he’s not here at all.

But he can _feel_ that it’s not true; a strange, resolute tug in his chest, a string wrapped around his ribs.

No one approaches him as he crosses the yard to the largest cabin, the air muggy with heat, pressing in and around his borrowed skin. They hang back, and he recognises none of them; they talk to each other, they whisper the name Dean gave him, rather than his true one.

He treads his way up the wooden steps to the doorway of the cabin; its doorway is swathed with beads, and inside he can hear a voice, laughing, muffled. The air smells sickly sweet.

He considers the idea that he’s wrong; that he _can’t_ be in this cabin because it smells like semen, like sweat and like _shame;_ but he wants to go in, if only to see what is in there. If only to avoid going back to ‘his’ time, because he has to _know._

He brushes the beads aside and goes in, not really considering that his actions might be rude, or interpreted badly. He feels clinical somehow, placed in this cabin, its low ceilings, its filthy windows. Idolatries, statuettes, are littered all over the surfaces; there are rugs, mismatched, lining the floors. In the corner – he notes, absently – is Dean’s jacket, folded over the back of a chair. In the centre of it all is a man.

He’s dark-haired; rough-looking but not unattractive, from what Castiel understands ‘attractiveness’ to be, among humans; he looks loose, splayed on the floor with his legs out in front of him, his back resting against the footboard of the wide, double bed in the centre of the room. He has a beard; he wears loose, ill-fitting clothes, and has bare feet. He looks unsurprised to see him.

“ _Jesus.”_ He murmurs, head lifted to look at Castiel; eyebrows raised. “S’been a while, huh? What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

Castiel doesn’t understand. “Do we- ?” he asks, suddenly wrong-footed, and the man sitting on the floor chuckles gently as he gets to his feet.

“Hasn’t been _that_ long.” His voice is a soft, weary rasp; his eyes half-hidden by his hair, movements easy, long, languid. Castiel feels his muscles stiffen when the man comes close.

They’re exactly the same height; the man reaches for his hand, pulls it up to flatten their palms together, and their hands are exactly the same size; his, tanned and callused; Castiel’s, pale by comparison. Soft.

He realises, and even then he does not believe _._

“What _are_ you?” his voice comes out hoarse. The Other – nameless, buried in Castiel’s denial – laughs, again. His laughter carries little mirth.

“C’mon, Tarzan.” He presses his palm more firmly against Castiel’s. Castiel – strange though it seems to him, now – has never been touched like this before. Not skin-to-skin. He feels strangely distanced by it; wonders why no one will touch him, why he doesn’t reach out on his own. “You can work it out, right?”

“You’re – I.” Castiel stops himself. “You’re an abomination.” He parrots, automatic, the words slipping from his mouth. The Other Castiel – Cas, he supposes, nothing of God in him, no _el_ to soften his name - _Cas,_ instead, a soft whisper he associates mostly with Dean, an insult when his brothers and sisters spit it. It suits this tired, wretched thing. He forgets, briefly, that this thing is _him._

Cas laughs in response to the slur, and looks him in the eye. “I forgot how we were.” He breathes, and smiles as if it’s uncontrollable, lips twitching, tilting up; he shows _teeth_ when he smiles, like Sam Winchester does; lips stretched over his teeth, creases around his eyes. “You run hot.” He says, folding his hand around Castiel’s palm; pressing his thumb into the centre of it, fingers bony, probing the soft, pouchy flesh of his hand. “What’re you doin’ here, anyway?” he murmurs. “Come to teach me the error of my ways?” he laughs, and Castiel stares at him.

“I – Dean told me about this place.”

“ _Dean’s_ here, too?” Cas says, interested, and as he talks, he slips his fingers beneath Castiel’s sleeve; winds them around his wrist. Castiel’s pulse flutters.

“Not – not yet.” He doesn’t know why he’s so flustered. “A few days, perhaps.”

“You came to warn me?” Cas murmurs, voice pitched lower. He is stepping closer, albeit slowly; once, they were arm’s length apart, but now there is barely room to breathe between them. “That’s cute.” He says, and pulls Castiel’s hand towards him by the wrist; leans his forehead on his palm.

“I just wanted to see.” Castiel admits, his hand so _warm_ against Cas’ face. The way Cas moves is something Castiel could never hope to achieve; sinuous, seductive, careful; he tilts his head against Castiel’s palm, dragging his nose against it; opening his mouth against the heel of his hand.

“You like it?” Cas’ voice is muffled against his skin.

“I don’t know.”

“It _sucks.”_ Cas says, laughing, and he scrapes his teeth on Castiel’s palm, making him inhale sharply. He pulls his hand out of Cas’ grip, and looks him up and down.

“How did you get this way?” he says sharply, eyes raking Cas’ listless features.

Cas shrugs. He maintains eye contact, though Castiel finds himself desperately wanting to break it. He can smell the humanity on Cas’ flesh, smell nothing of his former self, nothing of heaven, or even of hell. It’s as if he’s been rolling in dirt, saturating himself in it, and Castiel finds it repugnant and – guiltily - _fascinating_. “Just happens.” He says, and he reaches for Castiel’s face with a hand. “I almost forgot how we were.” He says, “You’re – can you feel that?” He grins, and laughs. He pulls Castiel’s face towards his, and kisses his mouth. “Jesus. It’s like-“ Castiel has no idea what he’s talking about, only that when their lips touched he felt a thrill, like standing near flames, and that he _wants_ it.

It just seems simpler to kiss Cas than to pull away; he lets Castiel slip his hands beneath the trenchcoat, the suit-jacket, all his layers carefully repaired, slipped on, time and time again. Cas kisses him and he realises he never even knew the taste of his own mouth, how his lips felt, how his hands, large, could splay and press and grip the edges of his flesh. He realises no one really _knows_ this – no one sees themselves from a distance, or even this close; no one feels themselves like this, no one can know like he knows, now.

Cas’ hands settle on his hips and he says, “Can I show you something? Have you done this before?” Voice low, breaths halting and careful, eyes searching Castiel’s with barely disguised hunger.

“Never.” He replies, truthfully. It feels like a lie, nonetheless; how can he tell Cas that he’s never even been touched? Certainly not like this; with affection, with care. He’s been stabbed, brutalized, blown to pieces. He has not, to his knowledge, been _touched._

“You’re so _young_ –“ Cas winds his arms around Castiel and pulls them, flush, together; Castiel tentatively places his hands on Cas’ back. _“_ Was it always like this?” He says to Castiel’s throat, lips brushing his skin as he talks.  He pushes his hips against Castiel’s – the same height, and he swallows in the knowledge that they’re the same _length,_ the same _width,_ twin in every way but the shallowest details; Cas’ hair slightly longer, his body slightly thinner, slightly browner from the sun. He realises, absently, that even their breaths are synchronised; they kiss with the same rhythm. Their hands - roaming, clasping -  match.

Cas pulls him over to the bed and clambers onto it first – he kneels in the centre of the mattress, hand circled loosely around Castiel’s wrist. He tugs insistently; “C’mon, don’t leave me now, okay?” Slightly desperate, slightly slurred. “C’mon.” Castiel does; wantsto. He toes off his shoes before he gets onto the bed – Cas snorts a laugh.

He follows Cas’ movements and kneels opposite him, their knees touching; Cas puts his hands on Castiel’s shoulders and raises up on his knees. He slides his hands around Castiel’s shoulders and goes to work on his shirt buttons, quick and practised. Castiel realises absently that he’s never even _seen_ the skin beneath. There’s so much to him he didn’t know – his skin, his clothes, the heat inside him that builds when Cas touches him, the heat pushing against the fabric of his pants; his potential to be _this,_ this creature stripping him out of his clothes, sliding his hands softly and carefully over his chest.

Cas touches him gently with wide spreads of his palms, sweeping them over his skin; he thumbs at Castiel’s nipple and smiles around his intake of breath; he leans between them and mouths at Castiel’s shoulder, sucks on his skin, working the flesh between his lips and teeth as his hands fumble and slip on Castiel’s pants. He finally gets them undone; the two of them separate, work the pants off together, and when Castiel is sitting there naked – unkempt and messy from kissing, his legs splayed open in front of him – Cas just _stares._ He reaches for his knee and hesitates before touching down, eyes wide and avoiding Castiel’s face.

Then, as if remembering himself, he undresses quickly – throws his shirt to the floor, slips out of his pants as if they’re nothing, is naked and pressed against Castiel’s chest in the space of a minute; his cock is hot and wet against Castiel’s thigh. “What do you want?” he says to Castiel’s ear, and takes the lobe between his teeth; bites down gently.

He runs his hands over the backs of Cas’ thighs. “I don’t know.” He says, choosing his words carefully. “Whatever you’re willing to give.”

Cas chuckles against his ear. “That’s a long list.” He presses a soft kiss to Castiel’s throat. “I’ll think of something.” He reaches between them and curls his hand loosely around Castiel’s half-hard cock; thumbs at the head, moves his hand up and down slowly, carefully – and still it’s enough to make Castiel tilt his head back; to make him gasp. Cas laughs again, the noise loud and close; he trails his way down; kisses his chest, hand between his legs all the while. He sucks one of Castiel’s nipples into his mouth; licks him, scrapes his teeth over the nub of flesh; it tightens under his touch, and Castiel finds himself – through instinct, through knowledge – lifting his hand to the base of Cas’ neck, and pushing him, not ungently, down.

Cas laughs; he always laughs, like everything Castiel does is funny somehow; but he concedes to Castiel’s direction, shifts to kiss lower; abdomen, hip, thigh; he brushes his nose through the hair between Castiel’s legs. He uses his fist to guide Castiel’s cock into his mouth, and the sensation is overwhelming, almost too much – Castiel’s fingers grasp and tighten in Cas’ hair and he trembles when Cas starts to work him with his mouth and his hand, his other palm spread on Castiel’s bent knee. Castiel’s cock drags against the soft inside of Cas’ mouth; his knees weaken; they shake. He looks down, having never (of course) seen himself like this; rapturous, pliant, _worshipful;_ he wonders if this is how he looks in prayer. He wonders if the comparison is appropriate.

Cas huffs, breaths skittering across Castiel’s bare stomach; he sucks him, moving his head up and down, lips pausing around the head of his cock, tongue laving at the slit; he dips down again and swallows, and Castiel feels it; all the movements of his throat, the way his flesh moves, tightens, undulates; the way Cas’ hands grip his thigh hard enough to bruise, when he shouts raggedly and shudders his release down Cas’ throat.

Cas doesn’t swallow, doesn’t even pause – he pulls off and nudges his face close to Castiel’s, kisses him immediately, filthy and wet and slurring his lips against Castiel’s chin, hand dug hard against Castiel’s thigh, nails scraping bluntly. He _moans,_ makes a noise so desperate that it’s strange for Castiel to hear it in his voice; he forces his tongue into Castiel’s mouth, licks his way inside, pulls back fast and kisses his chin, licks at his jawline, nips his throat, muttering _jesus, jesus,_ all the while. Castiel’s vision is hazy; his ears _roar._ Something stirs, close to him, against his ribs.

“Tell me what you want.” He finds himself murmuring, and Cas grunts, paused with his mouth open over Castiel’s throat.

“ _Fuck.”_ He says, and draws his head up to look him in the eyes. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Castiel looks blankly at him, honestly confused. “Why would I want that?”

Cas just laughs half-hysterically and draws back – with careful, sure hands he rearranges Castiel. Looks at him, spread out; his stomach, the hair between his legs; his crotch, his inner thighs; all are slick, dripping with saliva and come, drooled from Cas’ mouth. Cas runs a hand through his hair, a gesture Castiel recognises from Dean.

“Turn over.” He says softly, and Castiel obliges; he lies with his chest against the sheets, head inches from the foot of the bed. Cas runs his hands up the backs of his legs; his touch is careful, lazy, though Castiel can feel the way his fingers tremble. He reaches the curve of Castiel’s backside with his palms; Castiel feels his weight increase, press down; he feels the nudge of Cas’ cock between his thighs; impossibly hot, impossibly near.

Cas kisses the foot of his spine. “Tell me.” He reminds him, and noses at the cleft between Castiel’s buttocks; spreads them with his hands.

The first brush of tongue is a surprise; uncomfortable, strange; Cas kisses him and then licks over the furl of muscle, tongue pressing carefully over it, dipping carefully _in –_ Castiel arches back, is pinned down by the weight of Cas’ thighs; he says, “Oh.” surprised, and Cas hums.

“Is this okay?”

 “Do it again.” His voice trembles, just slightly – Cas pulls his cheeks further apart and presses his face as close as he possibly can; licks over him wetly, tongue pressed flat over him before he thrusts it inside. Castiel’s skin flushes, all over; he groans when Cas’ finger presses in alongside his tongue, going boneless beneath him, feeling his cock stir, again, between his legs.

Cas lifts from him – draws away – and Castiel whines at the loss of heat, of how he feels strangely open, _wanting;_ but he returns quickly enough, and when his finger nudges into Castiel again, it’s slick and wet. The first push _burns,_ and he pushes his hips back against it, taking Cas’ finger further in; he mutters against the sheets, hands curled into fists, and mutters, shamefaced, for more. He’s granted it – a second finger, a push and twist, Cas working at him with his tongue and fingers both, pulling them in and out, opening him up, pulling him taut; he feels hot all over; sweat pools in the hollows at the backs of his knees. Cas is patient and careful with him – he asks, _is this okay? Does that hurt?_ Even though the answer, every time, from Castiel, is just an incoherent groan. Eventually Castiel feels so loose around his tongue and fingers that he can’t imagine more; Cas has three fingers inside him, fucks him with them so slow and hesitant that Castiel can’t bear it; he grinds his hips against the bed.

“More.” He murmurs, and Cas pauses.

“Are you s-“

“I’m sure.”

Cas withdraws his fingers; his hand, on Castiel’s lower back, burns a palm-print onto his skin. There’s a second; a catch, where Castiel is bent up, face against the sheets, knees tucked beneath him; wanting nothing more than for Cas to be sheathed inside him; and Cas’ cock brushes against his hole (he’s so _open)_ and he grunts, shifting, waiting what feels an _eternity_ for Cas to finally push into him; _connect._

Cas stills, hesitant; Castiel pushes back onto him, pushing him fully in, all the way, and Cas curses.

“Move.” He says, and Cas curses again, and obliges; his rhythm stars off careful, cock dragging inside him, slick and wet with lube and saliva – catching briefly somewhere inside Castiel that makes him shout against the bed – but it quickly tails off into desperation, Cas pulling out and slamming back into him, muttering _fuck,_ over and over, in Castiel’s own voice. It’s still not enough, though – he pulls away so that Cas slips out – Cas curses in surprise – and then he turns and pushes Cas down onto his back. He misses his mouth when he tries to kiss him; he barely cares. Cas’ hands scrabble at him; he pushes him down, hard, and sits astride his waist; he takes Cas’ cock in hand; guides it inside himself, again; pushes down _._

Cas’ voice crests – “ _Fuck!”_ – as Castiel starts to ridehim, looking at his face, looking into his eyes. Cas bends up to meet him – knees bent behind Castiel’s back – and Castiel hooks his arm around the span of his back; kisses his cheek. “I miss you.” Cas mutters against his face, voice strained – and then he curses, again, because Castiel has pulled up, and moved down; is driving him into the mattress with the force of it, rising up and slamming back down, the noise coming thick and damp between them, flesh on flesh.

They come at the same time, Castiel’s hand vice-like around his back; lips stuttering against each other’s faces, gaping wide; soundless. Parenthetical.

Castiel shakes, holding him; he realises Cas is sniffing against his shoulder. Cas’ hands roam his hips, his back; push carefully at his buttocks, touch the space underneath him, where they’re joined. It’s the first time he truly reminds Castiel of himself.

“I wish you could stay.” Cas mutters, and his voice is thick, like Castiel has never heard himself sound. “I mean it, I missed it, feeling like this.” He sighs. Castiel can’t see his face; Cas’ forehead is pressed against his shoulder. “I love you.” He laughs. “I dream about you.”

Castiel pulls back – Cas slips out of him when he shifts, though Castiel is still in his lap, still wrapped around him. “I have to go back.” He says, and he is sorry for it. Cas nods. Laughs wetly.

“’Course you fucking do. How do we get _here,_ otherwise?” he shakes his head. “That’s really confusing.” He looks away from Castiel, briefly. “Think we broke the universe?” there’s hope in his voice. Castiel huffs a laugh.

“That’s a lot harder to do than this.” He says, and pulls Cas closer to him; kisses his forehead.

“Do something for me?” Cas says, after a couple of seconds of silence. Castiel hums.

“What do you want?”

“Don’t come here again.” He says. “Don’t let it happen.” He kisses Castiel’s throat. “Break it.”

“Break what?”

Cas pulls back, and looks him in the eyes. “Everything. If you have to.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
